Late January in Indiana, I’m outside in short sleeves catching up on yard work I neglected in the fall, working up a sweat in the process. Only when I’m struggling to remove a stray tree from where it should not be do I realize why it hasn’t been done already. I don’t have the fucking tools I need for this shit. Everything is twice as hard as it should be, maybe three times.
I worked up a ravishing hunger. My instinct was to hop in the car and speed off to Rally’s, grab a Big Buford meal, with tasty, greasy, battered fries and tea, unsweetened, of course, because sugar is nasty stuff. It’s also all throughout the bun, the fry batter, probably the damned meat patty. Americans put fucking sugar in everything and then fry it in trans fat.
So, I decide to head into the house and whip up a chopped organic super green salad with broccoli, mushrooms, carrots, green onions, and Annie’s Organic Cowgirl Ranch dressing — a solid choice. I feel much more refreshed than I would have had I shoved fatty, salty poison down my gullet.
